Stay Out of the Kitchen
by GinAndTonicAndMaybeALemon
Summary: "Abigail." My heart beats hard in my chest, pulse in overdrive. Will calls out my name again, telling me there's no one there, no one outside but him. The false lies that ghosts aren't real. Believing him for a split second, I unlock the front door... and let a blood curdling run out my throat when I see it behind him. I sprint upstairs, away from whatever has come to our door.[AU]
1. Prologue: October

_**Author Note:**_

 _ **I don't own Hannibal.**_

 _ **I just started writing for Hannibal, so I hope all the readers will go easy on me. AU of course, but heavily based on the show. I couldn't find much information on the floor plan for Hannibal's house, and some things changed during the show, so I'm going to partially wing it. Only the prologue is short, the rest is long. I have no beta-reader, so mistakes are all mine. The theme is paranormal, not much of a horror story, beside maybe graphic depictions. I have no plans for a pairing yet.**_

 _ **Rating might go up to M due to violence or something.**_

* * *

 _ **Stay Out of the Kitchen**_

* * *

 _ **Prologue: October**_

There was a demon in the other room. Terrified, Abigail ran, for obvious reasons. Running into Will's room, hiding under the bed, mouth covered tightly as she resists the urge to scream. The door opens right away, feet slowly entering the picture. _Shit, shit, shit._ Of course they had to move into a haunted house of all places, just when her own life had been flipped over and she had pulled herself together. Like some old horror movie. The terrifying thing about this haunting, though, was that Abigail knew exactly who those 'things' were. They had names, stories, written in books and published in newspapers. Some from over a century ago, some from decades ago. Yes, Abigail knew their names, she had read them, in search of some sort of explanation for her own violent and shredded life.

The feet pace in a circle. No tail, claws, just ordinary boots, scuffing across the carpet.

Abigail stops breathing, horrified as the feet slowly start to leave. Her throat pulsing with the adrenaline running through her body, like the she fell into the lake. Her dad had to pull her out, she was so young, the experience had been horrible. Cold water seeped into her lungs, only to be coughed up seconds later. It was winter, mother had been scared and driven her to the hospital, fearing pneumonia.

The dragon, as she calls him, refusing to use his real name (which would be admitting he was there, and she really didn't want to admit it) leaves, the door shutting behind him. It's a long time before she comes out; she swears there is someone there, pushing her on, telling he it'll be okay. She slides out from under the bed, peering around the empty bedroom, then getting up and walking to her phone on the desk. Grabbing her coat, making sure her keys are secured, she leaves, the names still playing out on the back of her mind. There was more than one victim, just as there was more than one killer, but only a few names were published.

 _Bloom. Crawford. Dolaryde. Budge. Lecter._


	2. Chapter One: September

**_Stay Out of the Kitchen_**

* * *

 _ **Chapter One: September**_

"Can you turn left up ahead? There's a house I want to see."

"It's not a murderer's house, is it?"

"Will-"

"You might start getting ideas," Will sighs jokingly, but obliges. Turning left, past the darkened houses and dim windows, the only illumination a few street lights. Smiling, I stare out at the occasional house that passes, my eyes open for the light blue one with oak window frames and glass door. The beat up car was loud, but it got the job done; giddy, I see the place go by, dark ferns and bushes overrunning the front yard. My hand plays with the necklace around my neck, tugging at the key hanging from it. The place had probably gone untouched for years, waiting for a new family to arrive. Unlikely it was be touched for another decade, not many people wanted to live in the home of deceased victims who perished violently in cold blood.

This place had no name, just a dark black number 408 on the front mailbox. Quickly, the house disappears from view, and I slump back into my car seat, having expected more. I look over at Will, who's eyes are on the road up ahead.

 _The Fairy-slaughter house_ was a notorious place in police records and the minds of serial-killer enthusiasts, such as myself. Built a long time ago in the 1800's, it went through a relatively normal life, holding families and couples that belonged on the front cover for 'perfect family' articles. The day it became famous was when it saw the years of a madman who went through town, killing couples and designing wings from their skin. The man attacked the very blue house the car passed, killing a couple and setting them up in front of the bed, a perfect rendition of angels with their hands clasped in prayer.

However, the _Fairy-slaughter house_ itself held more secrets. When that first killer was executed in 1989, a new man bought the place. Surprising, given that not many people preferred living in the house of a murderer. Still, the man stayed, where he practiced for nights on end composing musical pieces, living by himself for years on end. This was what confused me, intrigued me. He must have seemed so normal, just another person, an older gentlemen who played at the local club, attended the opera, kept of the act of an ordinary citizen. He died by accident, older articles state, in a fire. Accidentally got gasoline on himself out in the back woods, meant for the long dead bodies of his victims he was burning, since they were of no use to him anymore. Crafted expertly into instruments, the dead soon decayed, and he had to find a way to get rid of the extra pieces whilst not exposing himself to the police.

"We're almost there, are you sure you don't want me to buy more food?" Will glances at me, and I shake my head. He tried so hard to win me over, giving me as much as his money would allow, doting on my school work and activities like any normal parent would. Except, he was not my parent, only a guardian, and I did my best to remind everyone around me of that. Brown hair, blue eyes, Will had almost boyish features, but his hair is not even the same shade as brown as mine. More of a chocolate colour, whereas mine held a red tinge. We definitely looked nothing alike. He could have been a great dad if his old career never got in the way.

Once an FBI profiler, a job he quit in favour of working with animals because of my adoption, he did his job well. Caught criminals, mostly because he could figure them out, place himself in their shoes and think exactly like they could. A skill he did his best to transfer into his current title as my guardian.

Still, even if he had the ability to win parent-of-the-year award from me, he would never accept it. Guilt, from killing my own father and letting my mother die. At least, he thought so. I did agree with the idea of killing my father, since he was a bit of a loose-mind, and my mother was just another tragedy waiting to happen. Still, mother had tried. It would have been nice to her to be here with me.

"What time do you start school tomorrow," Will asks, and I shrug. School was something I was not looking forward to, mostly stemming from the fear of starting over. On the other hand, it would be a distraction.

"Nine O'clock. Same as other schools," I say plainly.

"Not all schools start at nine."

"This one does."

"If you don't feel ready, you don't have to go." Will looks at me again, eyes full of an emotion I can't place. Worry? Sure, he worried for my wellbeing, but he had too much faith in me to be worried about something as simple as school. Apprehension, perhaps?

"Just because we're moving into this place doesn't mean everyone will think I'm a freak," I say, raising my eyebrows. He shrugs, looking back out onto the road. _The Fairy-slaughter house,_ that had such a nice ring to it.

Another ten minutes, Will announces our arrival as he parks.

But it looked more like a Brooklyn apartment then a house in Baltimore. Brown on the outside, it was too dark to see if it was stucco. As I climb out of the car, I stare it down, taking a long look at the area around it. A corner on the left, another house on the right, and a sidewalk disappearing down both sides. I wait on the sidewalk while Will parks, going to grab my suitcase from the trunk before slinging his own duffel bag over his shoulder, digging into his pocket for the key. All of our stuff was packed ahead, dropped off at this place. Will said he left it all my things in my bedroom, packed away in boxes months ago, some packed a few days ago.

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I go over and grab a hold of my suitcase from him. Will was very stubborn, especially about needing help. He smiles gratefully, then ascends the short steps to the door. Dark wood, glass, it was clean and expensive. I had seen external pictures of this place up in books, on my phone's tiny screen when investigating the history of this new place. _Our new place. My new place._ My nerves were excited every since I'd been delivered the news, and now that I was here they were in overdrive.

The outside appearance was practically misleading. Dimmed hallway, Will flicks on a switch before locking the door behind us, and I leave my suitcase near the door before taking a long look at everything. The smell of cleaner was still heavy in the air, disinfectant mixed in with emptiness. No one had lived here for the past few years, and even though it felt empty, void of human activity, there was something else. Voices on another frequency, like someone was still here, waiting for something. I take a few steps forward, glad my footsteps were muffled by the carpet. This was a silence I didn't want to disturb.

What did the inside of a place look like in Brooklyn? Modern? In Baltimore, most houses held the distinct feeling of home, which varied from person to person. This place was no different- classy was the word I'd use for this home. Classy and clean.

"Your room is upstairs, first room on the left," Will says, dropping his bag and reaching for mine. I wave his arm away.

"I can carry it myself."

"Someone's snappy," Will says, letting me take the suitcase. He walks down the hallway, passing by a set of doors on the right, the first a single door and the next one doubled. A turn right, we pass another set of doors before arriving a staircase with a few landings every few steps, a turn right, then another turn left. Upstairs, Will has to turn on another light, but the one light isn't enough for the darkness. He leads me to my room, first on the left, pausing in front of my door and turning to me expectantly. He probably wanted my reaction. Self-conscious, I suddenly notice how shocked I must look. This house was vast. Smiling, I open the door and pull my suitcase inside.

 _Homey_ , a word I would choose again. A queen-sized bed in the middle, covered in simple reds and violets. Multiple fluffy pillows, one white bookshelf on the left and a small white desk to match. A window, with a long seat running wall-to-wall, white as well but adorned with a few red pillows. I notice my picture frames laying on the seat, and all my other unopened boxes in the middle of the room. Swallowing, I turn around to look at Will. He looks nervous, looking at the boxes and small amount of decoration before looking at me, not smiling but not frowning either.

"What do you think?"

"It's alright." More than alright really. Nodding, I look out the windows. The roof next door and a dark skyline was the only thing I could see. "Nice view."

"I thought you might enjoy it. I started to unpack for you, stopped when I realized you might want to do that yourself," Will answers, most likely referring to the pictures.

"It's fine."

"Well... I'll leave you to yourself. Bathroom is at the end of the hall on the left. Remember to go to sleep early, school is tomorrow. You sure you don't want to eat?"

"I'm sure. Did you know a previous owner used to eat people here," I say, turning around. The second-last owner had been a cannibal. Will pauses, unsure of how to answer.

"Well, don't worry, I won't feed you people," he says, the corners of his lips turning up. I crack a smile, then watch as he closes the door, footsteps disappearing down the hall onto the steps. I look around, exhausted and sleepy. Unpacking can wait for tomorrow. Biting my lip, I pull off my outdoor clothes and change into my pyjamas, climbing into the warm bed. Ignoring the nagging feeling that I was missing out on something, dismissing it as nerves, I go to sleep.

* * *

The first night was nice, no worries, but after my rest I want to explore. Climbing out of the shower, which was stocked with more products than I needed (due to Will's inability of knowing what a female needs, and most likely buying anything that looked important), I change and head downstairs. It was only 7 AM, the house was silent except for a distant ticking of clocks. I pass one on my way down the hallway from last night, checking the door closest to the front. Luck was on my side, and I enter a dining room, no lights on, the only light coming from a single doorway that was obviously the kitchen. I walk in slowly. _A cannibal used to live here. This was where he cooked and prepared people, eating them in the dining room._ Did he eat with class, knives and forks, fine cutlery and imported spices? Or was he messy, finishing them while they were still raw, blood and guts splayed out everywhere as he choked down plate after plate?

A silver looking island with a built in stove stand unused, a brown table nearby for cutting things. Will told me that the previous owner had the house modelled so it stayed the same over decades. _The Tooth Fairy._ This place was named after him, was that what he was hoping for? I knew he killed off perfect families. But what was he really like? Under his exterior? He must have been like me, he must have held some sort of fascination with the killers of the past. When the place burned down after the second-last owner, the Tooth Fairy was the one who had it rebuilt. There was a comfort in that, in knowing that this kitchen remained untouched by dead bodies, that I would never prepare a sandwich where an unfortunate victim had been.

There were two white grocery bags on one of the counter tops, a note attached to one. I read it, resisting the urge to roll my eyes when I glance at the money next to the bag.

 _Breakfast in the bag, lunch and supper next to it. I'll be back at 9. Help with unpacking in the study is greatly appreciated._

 _-Will_

Like I would ever need sixty dollars for a school lunch, but I was grateful. Tucking the money into my pants, checking out the bag to find a poutine and a burger, admiring that fact that Will was not completely equipped to handle kids. I look into the second bag, seeing a few new dog bowls, not yet out of their casing. Will liked dogs... actually, love was a more suitable word. A deep, festering passion for the fluffy animals... of which he still had a few back at his house. Still there, but there a few more things to be moved, and once that was over with and everything set up, Will would bring them over. The house was huge, no doubt about that, but I knew Will wanted fields for them to run in, roll around and tumble and play.

Deciding to eat, I look around for a spot. There was a chair to sit on in the corner, but it was covered with a white sheet, not yet touched by anyone, Will or otherwise. I decide to eat in the dining room, but not before checking the other doors.

Opening the door next to the fridge, only to find a pantry with a small door on the end. I try to open it, but it doesn't budge. Exiting the room, I carry my breakfast to the next door, finding myself staring into a tiny porch-like doorway, a shed beyond the glass. I go back the way I came, wandering around for a few moments in search of a light switch. _The dining room._ This was a room that I already found interesting, even if I had just seen it for the first time, and other rooms in the house were unexplored.

Will was not the gardening type, still, I felt my heart leap when I see one wall. Obviously meant to hold plants, old dirt stains on the bottom and sides of the horizontal holder. The wall across from it holds a painting above a fireplace, reminding me of churches. White horns on either side, soft yellow lamps on the mantel piece, it was a calling back to another country, Europe probably. There is another set of double doors, most likely leading outside as well. A chandelier, white chair cushions, some covered in white blankets, the table itself completely bare. Taking a seat at the head of the table, I quietly eat, my nerves on edge again.

Creepy was the word I'd give this place.

Strange and unsettling.

But beautiful. Empty, but elegant. Like someone came here to live a façade, ironic, at least when you knew the history. And I did, I'll admit I've always been fascinated with horror and killings, but after my father, my curiosity peaked. After meeting Will, the man who once had to know these kinds of people more than he knew himself, I was transfixed.

Finishing my breakfast, I wrap it in the bag and decide to take it out to the trash. Going out through the kitchen door, I find a garbage bin sitting alone near the shed. I drop my bag in, turning around but noticing a woman walking by, staring up at the house. Nervously, I watch her as she slowly comes around, eyes darting over the windows of the house before noticing me. Shocked, then smiling, she comes up to the side, pausing at the edge of the backyard.

"You just moved in?"

"Yeah, last night. Well, a while ago, but I just got here last night," I say, shoving my arms into my pockets. She crosses her arms and nods, looking over at the house before looking back at me. I blame my lack of social-skills and anti-social behaviour itself on Will. Plus, he inadvertently taught me to be wary of people, you could learn a lot of a person just by looking at them. This woman had curly red hair, not frizzy and unkempt though. A lot of time on her hands. Petite, dressed in a blood red skirt with a black coat on, she walks over, distracting me from my train of thought.

"I'm Freddie Lounds. I live down the street," she says, extending a grey-gloved hand. Nervous, I take it before letting go, having no idea how to go about pleasantries.

"I'm Abigail Hobbs. Will is at work right now, won't be getting back until tonight," I say, stepping back and shoving my hand back into my pocket. Knowing I might appear rude, but I barely knew anyone around, much less this woman. I had other things to do than chat with a stranger.

"Ah, that's too bad, I was hoping to meet him. He has a big of a... reputation among reporters," Freddie says, crossing her arms and shrugging. I shrug back, doing my best to read her. Nice, could be charismatic, most likely used to getting what she wants. Will might not like her. Actually, he so rarely liked anyone, especially when they were easy for him to read, and when he read something he didn't like...

"So, a reporter," I say cautiously, nodding. My conversational skills needed work. Freddie beams and nods looking proud to be in that profession.

"Yes. Well, sometimes, I mostly focus on journalism. Writing for my blog, the occasional paper for local magazines, sometimes the newspaper. I don't have a strict schedule."

"Sounds like a nice deal."

"It can be." Freddie shrugs and nods, glancing at the house again. I bite my cheek, wanting to go. I did still have school.

"I was actually hoping to talk to your father, maybe get an inside look into how an agent works-"

"He's not my father," I quickly say, cutting her off. She nods, pausing and recollecting herself before continuing. I remember hearing people talk about journalists, reporters and the like. They either wrote and showed only what you wanted to hear, what would hook you in, or they were likes puppets on strings, playing under their superiors. The media had a tendency to flip the truth, lie consistently. Especially when it came to crime; knowing Will, he'd hate the woman in front of me.

"Well, tell Will I came by for me," Freddie says, turning away and walking back the way she came. Not friendly, but not rude either, more like content. Probably a mask she learned to wear well a while ago. Sighing, I turn and head back into the house, locking the back door and running upstairs for my jacket. Exploring could be finished later, it was 8:15 and I had to take at least one bus to get to the school. A half hour ride probably, I wanted to arrive early. Opening my suitcase and grabbing my bag from inside, I look for binder that I stored in one of the multiple boxes sprawled out on my bedroom floor. Walking over the floorboards as I search, then pausing.

Listening.

There was another sound, a slow creak from somewhere in the hallway. Surprising, since the boards were strong and the carpet thick, it took me a lot of effort to make them squeak slightly. Heart thumping, I slow straighten up and look at my bedroom door ajar, the wall in the hallway not giving me any clues to the sound. No shadow, nothing. I slowly resume searching through the boxes, grabbing my binder soon after and throwing my bag over my shoulder. I walk down the steps, taking note of how quiet my footsteps seemed. So easy to scared people by sneaking up on them, I could see all the possibilities.

Downstairs, I glance behind me a final time before turning to the front door, swinging it open and stifling a scream. My heart jumps to my throat as I see a girl standing there, hand raised as though she was about to knock.

"Abigail?"

"That's me," I answer, nodding. The girl smiles brightly, one arm tightening over her binder as she extends a hand, and I shuffle my bag and binder onto one arm before shaking it.

"I'm Marissa. My mom told me to come over, something she arranged with you dad... or something like that."

"Not my dad, it's just Will," I reply, frowning. Of course Will wouldn't tell me. It was easy for him to figure out that I would say no to this, so why not just make it happen? At least this way, I couldn't say no. Exiting the house, I turn and lock the door behind me, shoving the key-chain back into my sweater before turning around. "So... you go to...?"

"St. Baltimore," Marissa finishes when I'm at a loss for the name of the school. "Just takes one bus, or two if you go another route, but that route only runs in the early hours, one AM and such."

"Seems simple enough."

"You know the way?"

"I studied the route the other day, the street names, so I have an idea," I say. Marissa nods, hesitating before turning around and descending the steps, leading the way. I take one look back at the dark door, the dim hall beyond the glass, not wanting to leave the home I already felt secure in. Shaking my head, I hurry up and follow after Marissa.


End file.
